The Mikaelsons had come to New Orleans in search of a haven. It was supposed to be their home, their shelter. But the city had turned into a trap. They were exposed, surrounded by enemies, constantly on their guard. There was no safe harbor.
Rebekah peered out between two green canvas curtains, but the sunlit grass was undisturbed. Try as she might, she could not catch one single glimpse of someone hiding among the trees. The only thing to do was wait it out.
She rearranged furniture, chose the largest bedroom for herself, and tried to comb the remnants of the river out of her hair. She hung her gown out on the ramshackle front porch and sampled some of the previous owner’s surprisingly acceptable liquor in nothing but her damp cotton shift. She waited, watched, and fought against her paranoia for all she was worth.
When the sun finally began to dip back down toward the horizon, she decided that it was time to check on Elijah again. He might be strong enough to speak, or at least to share a drink with her. He might be able to tell her what had happened, and what they should fear was coming next.
There would be no need, though, to burden him with the news of her recent disaster. Eric’s first dispatches wouldn’t reach Mikael for weeks yet, so there would be plenty of better times to break that news. They would have to leave, but it didn’t really matter where they went. Rebekah understood now that trouble would follow them everywhere.
She poured some of the liquor into a flask. When Klaus arrived—if he ever got around to it—she would be free to go find some plump farmwife to help speed Elijah back to health. And Klaus always felt like he was being watched, so the eerie feeling she suffered from wouldn’t bother him.
Rebekah pulled open the trapdoor and dropped down. There was a stirring of movement from the blankets where Elijah lay, and her heart leaped with the hope that he was finally awake.
Then her eyes adjusted, and a feral hiss escaped from between her teeth. Elijah was still unconscious, lying exactly in the same position, except that his one eye had finally closed. He breathed shallowly and sweat beaded on his broad forehead. His body was fighting the poison, just as it should be. The movement she saw had come from another source entirely.
Eric crouched in the dank basement, a wooden stake in his raised hand. She prayed that it wasn’t made of white oak, but she could not rely on that hope. Eric was positioned over Elijah’s limp form, threatening his life even as Elijah barely clung to it. Eric gaped at her in surprise, and she experienced every feeling of his betrayal again in fresh, sharp detail as she threw her body against his.
They rolled together, away from Elijah, and the weapon fell from his stunned hand. His body was as hard as steel beneath hers, every muscle taut and tensed. He tried to speak, and part of her wanted to listen. Even now, the sight and feel and smell of him drew her in, made her want to be weak. But Eric had done more than enough damage already thanks to her traitorous feelings.
She wrapped one hand in a vise around his throat, cutting off his breathing until his hazel eyes fluttered and closed.
She fantasized a thousand brutal ways of repaying him for her broken heart, but her family’s safety hung in the balance, and so pragmatism won out. There was no need for another violent death, or for a mysterious disappearance that coincided so neatly with her own flight. His body would be found, drowned in the sea on the far side of New Orleans. It would be a mundane, ordinary death, and that would have to be vengeance enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AFTER TWO FULL days of pouring cloying amber liquid down his throat, Klaus was starting to feel nearly drunk enough. If he could just maintain this inhuman level of intoxication for a few years, he might—might—start to forget the sight of Vivianne turning her back on him. As always, the kind ladies at the Southern Spot had done their best to take his mind off his troubles, and one healthy-looking, bouncy brunette in particular had made it her mission to ease his pain. She had kept him supplied with good whiskey, charming banter, and every ounce of the expertise with which she plied her trade.
Best of all, she didn’t remind him of Viv in the slightest. Except when he noticed how dissimilar the two were, and then he called for more whiskey, and the dance began again.
Sooner or later, he suspected, he would have to step out of this happy haze and return to real life, but there was no rush. He liked it here, and this was a place that could never let him down. His siblings probably needed rescuing by now—they were talentless when it came to staying out of trouble—but surely they would rather have him at his best. He needed a few more days of restoration before he was ready to dust off his trademark swagger.
The brunette refilled his glass, and Klaus caught her around her waist and pulled her, giggling, onto his lap. “I’ve missed you,” he told her lustily, and she snuggled her ample bosom conveniently closer to his mouth. He sampled the whiskey, and then he sampled her. A week would be best, he decided. The world could do without him for a week.
Vivianne Lescheres obviously could.
It had never once occurred to him during their night together that she was saying good-bye. It should have, perhaps, but every clue had had an alternate explanation. A better explanation—one that fit Klaus’s way of looking at the world so that he had ignored the obvious. He hadn’t wanted to see that her relentlessly stubborn streak could work against him as easily as for him.
The brunette had an adorable sprinkling of freckles across her snub nose, and Klaus devoted all of his mental energy to counting them. He had everything he needed right here, and Viv could go to hell for all he cared. She didn’t appreciate him, anyway. He had been willing to reorder his entire life for her, to become a new and better man. If that wasn’t enough for her, then she hadn’t been worth it after all.
The belled curtain across the door chimed merrily, and a few of the whores squealed. Klaus’s girl didn’t so much as flicker her eyes toward the sound, and he made a mental note not to get so drunk that he forgot to pay her handsomely.
“Of course I found you here,” a voice snarled arrogantly, and Klaus furrowed his brow in concentration. It was a familiar voice, and it was attached to a pair of legs in dark leather boots. He followed the boots upward, then continued along a line of gold buttons that edged the waistcoat. There was a long neck above that, with a juicy pulse beating beside a large Adam’s apple. Klaus acknowledged he might be a bit drunker than he’d thought as his eyes finished their lazy trek to rest on Armand Navarro’s smug face.
“A likely story,” Klaus slurred carefully, “claiming you walked into a brothel because you were looking for my company.”
Armand’s answering smile really required a punch in the mouth, but Klaus’s hands were otherwise occupied and his head felt a bit fuzzy. He suspected that his best chance of winning a fight right now was to stay out of one. Perhaps if he sat very still, Armand would get bored and leave him alone with his cheerful brunette friend. Everyone would win in that scenario.
“Stand up and face me like a man,” Armand demanded. “We knew it was only a matter of time before one of you vermin went too far, and I wanted to be the one to ensure that you pay for it personally.” Perhaps a fight was unavoidable, then. Klaus had been ready to empty the city of werewolves once they learned about his affair with Vivianne, but having to do it without her seemed joyless and dull.